


Wrong and Broken

by junipersand



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: GeorgeIsFound (GeorgeNotFound), GoodBoyHalo (Bad), Healing and Recovery, Jeff (Skeppy), Manipulation, Nightmare (Dream), No OCs, Other, Pain, Pandas (Sapnap), and im about to sucker punch a bitch, bbh is sad, goodboyhalo is pogchamp, kind!nightmareteam, more opposite characters in the book, opposite au pogggggggg, or whatever you call the opposite of the dteam, pain nothing but pain, self doubt, villain!dreamteam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29127567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junipersand/pseuds/junipersand
Summary: Bad, abandoned by all his dearest friends, is forced to face the painful truth: his friends don't need him. Maybe that was for the best for a useless angel like him. He disappears, and no one blinks an eye, like they never noticed his disappearance to begin with. What happens when they finally do?Or: Bad gets adopted by a tall George, a father-figure Pandas and a shy Nightmare.
Relationships: BadBoyHalo & Dream, BadBoyHalo & GeorgeNotFound, BadBoyHalo & Sapnap, BadBoyHalo & Skeppy
Comments: 28
Kudos: 145





	1. He Wants Me Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad tries to convince himself that Good is lying to him. Surely his friends didn't choose his doppelganger over him... right?

Bad is a kind soul. Others seek comfort in his gentle words and calm encouragement.

Good is anything but. He is an ember that burns everything in its path, regardless of the cost.

From their disparities alone, one could only imagine the destruction they would cause. Between Bad’s magic and Good’s brute force, the catastrophes that would follow are nothing short of disastrous.

They are different. They are night and day, fire and water. Placated in their own worlds, they would have never expected to cross paths, as there was nothing that linked them together. Unlike Nightmare and Dream, unlike GeorgeNotFound and GeorgeIsFound, unlike Sapnap and Pandas—Bad and Good shared no commonplace, never meant to intersect.

… that was true, right?

_Right?_

… oh, fuck.

“Bad, for the love of god,” Good spat, exasperated, “if you say muffin _one_ more time—”

“What the muffin is wrong with you?” Bad snapped back. “You can’t just go around threatening people!”

“I didn’t ask! And the last time I checked; your friends like me better than _you_.”

Bad shut up instantly, a bright purple hue rushing up his face and the tips of his ears. Lies were made to be believable, and truths didn’t need to sound convincing. He knew how Dream, Sapnap and George hung around his evil doppelganger instead of him. He knew how much time Quackity, Puffy and Skeppy spent with Good and not Bad.

He was painfully aware how they ignored him after they’ve met Good.

Good smirked, delighted to finally have the upper hand after endless debate. While they were opposites, they were equally stubborn. “It’s true, isn’t it? Can’t find anything to dispute my claim?”

“They still like me,” Bad stuttered. His confidence wavered the more he thought about it. He looked down, holding his sides in uncertainty. “Don’t they?” He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself, rather than refute his counterpart.

Good’s tail flicked in glee. He put his hands on his hip, grinning widely to reveal razor sharp teeth. “Not as much as they like me,” he sang, tail curling around Bad’s waist. “Your friends are _sooo_ much more fun than the sad fucks back at my place. There’s only so many things I could do, before they”—He snapped his fingers, scoffing—“ _break_.”

Still purple-faced, Bad whipped to the demon, glaring daggers at his white skin and black eyes. Never in a million years he would have thought that his counterpart was crueler than anyone he’s met.

“You’re sick in the head.”

Good ignored him, opening his fist to examine his clawed fingernails. With his tail, he pulled Bad closer to him, a psychopathic sneer reflecting in Bad’s colorless pupils.

“You know what, Bad?” he asked, voice sweet like poisoned honey. He gingerly tapped his fingernails on his cheek, leaving only his index finger just beneath his eye. “I like it here.” He dug his fingernail into skin, drawing violet blood. He dragged his finger down, blood dribbling down to his cheek and onto his dark clothes. “I think…” He relished the horror in the angel’s face, too distraught to even notice his blood and injury. “… I would like to stay.”

“NO!” The rip of fabric pierced through the air, and Bad’s cloak was suddenly in tatters, scraps of cloth fluttering to the floor. A pair of wings erected from his back, reflecting and catching the light from his halo, as if they were luminescent. Yet, despite the majestic reveal, his panicked face ruined the image as he desperately backed away from the demon. “You can’t stay here! This is _my_ home!”

Good tilted his head at the feathers, barely bothered by the lightshow and magic bursting from the angel. He returned his tail, wrapping it around his own thigh. “Hm,” he hummed. “I assumed you were defective.” He clicked his tongue, unfazed. “But I guess not.”

For a few moments, Bad steadied his breathing and regained his courage. Wings spread out defensively, he stepped closer to Good, but the fear in his eyes betrayed his every step.

(Good grinned. He hadn’t expected the angel to be so exploitable. Angels were incompetent beings, but his counterpart was plain meaningless.)

“This is _my_ home,” Bad repeated, voice shaking. He glared at Good, but it was an ultimatum. “And I will protect it _from_ you.”

Good burst into laughter, as if this were the funniest thing he’d ever encountered. The angel paused, haven’t expected this reaction. His wings drooped slightly, confused and afraid.

Eventually, Good regained his composure and combed his loose hair behind his ears. He leeched onto Bad’s fear like a parasite, eating away at his insecurities and fears to fuel his own power. One misstep was all it took, and now he’ll push the angel down to the abyss. He’ll let the silver feathers be eternally snuffed out by the darkness.

“Protect it from _me_?” he cackled. “Have I done anything wrong? Have I hurt anyone?”

Bad wings fell. His halo disappeared from sight. He shrunk like a child being reprimanded by his mentor. “N—no,” he wisped. “You… haven’t.” He shot back, but like a wounded animal than a retort. “I—I—you’re only biding time! You’re going to do something that’s going to hurt someone, and I can’t allow that to happen!”

Good sneered. “How are you so sure?” he lashed. “I thought angels were supposed to see the good in everyone. Do you not have faith in me—your own counterpart?” Shaking his head, he brought himself to a disappointed sigh. “I was right; you _are_ defective. It’s no wonder that the others disliked you. Humans despise imperfections, just like you, a wrong, _broken_ angel.”

“I’m not broken.” Bad’s voice quivered. He clenched the sides of his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not wrong.” He folded his wings behind him. “You’re just trying to get in my head. You… you demons are like this. I know what your kind does.”

“There’s no need for me to get into your head.” Good feigned an offended gasp. It was quickly replaced by a sinister smile. He put a hand on his shoulder, forcing the angel to snap open his eyes and meet his stare. “Because I already am.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s time to face reality, angel.” He leaned closer to Bad, so close that he could feel the magic essence that the angel radiated from his skin, usually sweet and warming but now sour and distressed. “Your. Friends. Don’t. Need. _You_.”

He shoved the angel, forcing him to fall to the floor. Good towered over him, hand on hip with a demented sense of superiority engraved into his face. Bad’s mind drew a blank. Who can he tell this to? Everyone saw Good as a _better_ version of him; not evil. They would never believe him if he told them his counterpart’s heart was dark; darker than coal and colder than ice. Good was him, and he was Good.

Does that mean he was evil, too?

Skeppy. Skeppy would believe him, right? They’ve known each other for a long time, and he’ll believe him if he—if he just… (He remembered Skeppy and Good hitting off instantly, bonding over their chaotic personality and Bad’s incompetence.)

Quackity? Would he believe him? (He remembered Quackity and Good holding onto each other as they laughed together, claiming to be each other’s new best friends.)

Puffy? Would she? She had to. She was the most sensible out of all of them, even when the Egg tried to control her. (He remembered Puffy putting her trust into Good as they rebuilt the statue room, talking to each other as if they were old friends.)

Anyone?

Would _anyone_ believe him?

“Not going to prove me wrong?” Good squatted down, his tail curling behind him in joy. Joy that his doppelganger was weak; joy that the angel was so easy to manipulate. “Are you finally out of excuses, Bad?”

 _Run_.

Fear blossomed in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Eyes wide and paralyzed with fear, he stared straight at the demon, unable to turn away.

He wanted to run, but his legs were stiff like lead.

He couldn’t even find anything to say.

“I thought you were supposed to be talkative.” Good shook his head., but the grin on his face was less than subtle. “Bad, come on. Angels aren’t cynical; they’re forgiving, selfless, _loyal_ …” He scrunched his nose. “And you’re anything but. You’re more of a demon than I am. Perhaps god’s system was wrong and you were sorted into the wrong place…”

“Shut up,” Bad whispered.

“… or you stole someone’s wings and halo and took them for yourself…”

“Shut up, shut up!” Bad covered his ears, but Good’s voice rang in his head.

“Or maybe,” Good continued, triumph seeping into his voice, “you’re just as useless as I thought you were.”

“SHUT UP!” Feathers fell from his wings. Some turned grey.

“The others despise imperfections!” Good snarked. “That’s why they despise you!”

Bad roared and tackled the demon to the ground. Like a feral animal, he glowered at his psychotic counterpart, the intent to kill evident in his aura. His magic sparked like cinders, ruby aura licking his skin like pulses.

Held on the ground, Good showed no sign of weakness. He giggled, throwing the angel off guard.

“You say I’m going to hurt someone,” he snickered, words cutting into Bad like a sharp knife. “But take a good look at your own _self_.”

Bad’s eyes widened in shock, his bloodlust dissipating instantly. He scrambled to his feet, backing away from the demon as if he were standing on hot coals. His body trembled and shook, so much that he was covered in cold sweat. He held his palm, but numbness pricked at his fingertips, like cold stone.

“Angels are supposed to be peace lovers,” Good snipped, pushing himself up. It excited him to see the angel doubt himself because of his lies. “Gods, you _are_ broken.”

“What do you want from me?” Bad wisped, wounded and desperate. Tears glinted from the corner of his eyes. His shoulders sagged and wings drooped, all fight disappearing without a trace.

Good brushed dust off his clothes, a wicked thought popping into his mind. He could be rid of two birds with one stone. With crushing ease, he put his hand on Bad’s shoulder once more, this time without a struggle. Bad’s body was relaxed, defeated thoroughly.

His hand around his shoulder tightened. Bad winced as the claws dug into his flesh.

“I want you _gone_.”

He pushed the angel backwards, into a portal that led to another world.


	2. More Angels?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad feels himself falling, but he can't bring himself to care.

_Falling_.

He was plummeting from the sky, but the rush of air was like a whisper at the back of his mind. He couldn’t feel solid ground, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He’d been in the sky before. A long time ago, Bad once soared the skies and nestled in evening clouds. He’d sit on high cliffs and preen his feathers. It was such a distant memory—more like a fantasy, now—but it was only a few years ago. Even as he fell, his wings burned and cracked from mere movement. The more he opened the, it was as if a nail was being hammered into his spine.

Even if he tried, his wings won’t work. They were nothing but dead weight to him, like baseless ornaments weighing him down into the ocean. They’ve gone too long without opening, let alone using. He wasn’t worthy to have them.

Only, he wasn’t trying. He let the pain remind him that he was a hoax. He let the aches in his joints tell him that he’s a failure. Just because he wears a halo of light doesn’t mean he deserves it.

In chaos and conflict, they didn’t need kindness. Just like they didn’t need him. He was nothing to them. They needed power; they needed people who can help them turn the tides of war. He could do none of that. He was a healer, not a fighter. He was the person people turned to when they needed help or advice. Not for bloodshed and violence.

And he wasn’t needed there. They didn’t care about any of that.

_He’s worthless._

He’s got magic, he’s got wings—so what? If they can’t be used in fights, then they’re useless. They might as well be nonexistent, and Bad might as well be air. At least he won’t be wasting oxygen by being _him_.

Does he want to change? Does he want to mold himself into the warrior they needed? He doesn’t. He was fine with how he is now. It’s his fault for choosing to stay in a world where he isn’t wanted. He was foolish to think that they would accept him as one of them regardless of his skill. Attachments and emotions were secondary to them, just like him.

Bad squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands. Both his wings felt like they were about to snap out of his back, refusing to flap even once. He knew by the speed he was falling, he was going to die a gruesome death. The weakest people die the messiest deaths, and he was about to be a living example. Even if he wanted to try, to save himself from his rapid descent, he couldn’t. It was too late for him.

His face was moist, turning cool from the winds. Humans said they would remember their last moments when they’re facing their death, but he didn’t see any. Maybe there weren’t any memorable memories he could recall, even as he’s meeting his end. How pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice snuffed out by the wind.

He waited for his mind to go dark, but his breath was knocked out of his lungs as a warm figure crashed into him mid-air, pushing him off-course. The body sent them hurling elsewhere, deterring from the cold, hard ground he was supposed to end up.

Neither of them had time to scream as they were sent crashing into a solid wall, colored glass panes and wooden planks shattering upon impact. They collided on the shard-scattered floor, bodies entangled together. His breath hitched, waiting for the pain to kick in, but the only thing that bothered him was bruises littered around his sides and chest. Whoever had saved him from certain death had taken the brunt of the damage.

Bad tried to open his eyes but quickly realized he couldn’t. His body was still trying to process the shock from his near-death experience, and his limbs refused to work. He’d been more terrified than he let himself realize. There was still someone lying on him, most likely suffering from worse injuries than he is. The man’s arms were still wrapped around him, as if he’d been trying to protect him in spite of his own well-being.

Bad breathed out, body trembling uncontrollably. His wings were sticking out in wrong directions, and the searing pain in his joints were unbearable. Sweat pooled around his body as he tried to suppress the pain, but tears were forced to his eyes as his adrenaline began to wear off. The matter of the stranger behind him still persisted—who was it? He’d gone through a portal; the same portal that Good used when he came to his world.

Was this Good’s world, then? A world that made Good who he was? The thought alone made Bad’s knees go weak. He couldn’t stand the fighting in his own world. There was no way he could survive Good’s.

Thankfully, the stranger behind him began to stir. His arms around Bad shifted, but he didn’t let go. Bad’s mind raced, millions of terrible scenarios going through his head. He’d caused this person pain. They’re not going to let him live this down—

The man groaned, pushing himself upright. Glass shards and wooden splinters rained as he moved, sliding off silver-blue feathers and to the ground.

Wait.

_Feathers?_

“You okay?” the man asked, visibly trying to hide the pain in his voice. Bad snapped out of his delirium and turned his head, to be met with a painfully familiar face, but not. The man’s face was filled with concern and gentleness. The one he knew could only be seen with irritation and exhaustion.

Bad’s tongue dried. He wasn’t sure how he looked like right now, but the man looked way worse. He was covered from head to toe in bloody scratches _,_ with more serious injuries doting his arms. The wings seemed to be the only thing intact, though Bad’s not sure how.

The man frowned, seeing no reaction. “You… alright?” he asked again.

“George?” Bad blurted, confusion riddling his face. The pain his wings subsided after zero movement, though he was afraid to move them again.

 _George_ blinked at him. He stared, but he showed no obvious malice. It raised a red flag in Bad’s head.

“Yes?” he replied, more uncertain than wary. “That’s… my name?” He clicked his tongue. “Names aside, are you okay? If I’d waited a second longer, we’d be dead.”

His face was George, but his aura, his tone and even his expressions were completely different. He was the things that George was _not_. George wasn’t kind, he didn’t care about others’ well beings other than his own, he didn’t risk his neck for others—and he would never ask about someone else’s condition even if they were dying right in front of his face.

George certainly wasn’t tall. This George seemed to be as tall as Dream might’ve been. It was the only indication that he was in a completely different world, or George had suddenly grown wings and ten inches while he was at it.

“Ye—yeah, I’m fine,” Bad stammered. “Thanks for asking.”

 _George_ raised his wings. They looked silver, but the tips of each feather faded to sapphire blue. He was using them to shield Bad, but they barely had a scratch on them.

Wings. The only being that Bad knew had wings were—

“George, you’re an angel?”

George furrowed his brows. Bad’s fight-or-flight instincts triggered itself, knowing that George would retort with a snappy remark that would somehow result in a brawl between Sapnap, Dream, and George himself. Even if the two weren’t here, Bad still can’t rest easy.

“Yeah? Are the wings not enough proof?” he asked back. “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look okay.”

“I am fine,” Bad snapped a bit too harshly, pushing himself up. “I just need to get back to—”

Searing pain flared from his back as if he were being tortured by a molten whip. A scream was caught in throat, but ended up stuck on his tongue. His body froze instinctively, curling into a fetal position as his wings refused to obey his command.

George’s eyes widened at the condition of Bad’s wings. They were frail, thin and fragile; nothing like his own. “What happened to you?” he demanded. “Were you attacked? Wait, you need help. I’ll bring you to someone who can help you, okay?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Carefully avoiding his misshapen wings, George gathered the shorter into his arms and took off into the skies.

Bad barely stayed conscious throughout any of it, as he was trying to keep himself under control. The rest of the day was a complete blur to him. He could vaguely remember doors opening, hushed voices buzzing around him, and especially a glowing pair of hands on his back. It was odd. Some so bizarre that Bad wasn’t sure if they were his hallucinations or reality.

By the time he could collect himself, he realized that he was lying on his stomach, a blanket draped on his lower body. He tried to move, but his wings were fixed behind him, a metal exoskeleton setting them in place whilst attached to the ceiling. He was trapped, but it didn’t feel like a prison. The metal exterior didn’t feel like cuffs but rather a tool for healing. It wasn’t trying to restrain him; there weren’t any bars or lava that impeded his escape.

It reminded him of his own makeshift infirmary back at his home, but everything here was dedicated to healing, not put-together tools made from shears and a dagger.

He pushed himself up. The bed was water-like, almost like jelly that bounced right back. The equipment on his wings shifted on the railings attached to the ceiling, like harnesses instead of chains.

Bad turned around. His feathers were brushed and cleaned of dust, straightened but not fully preened. Their twisted shape was back to its original form, but now that they’re fully exposed, Bad realized how weak they’d been after years of neglect. They were nothing like George’s wings—large, glowing with health and strong—or how they should be.

He looked away. This was his own fault.

The door to the room opened. He whipped towards the entrance, seeing a complete stranger. He was wearing a dark blue jacket over a black shirt, with a ribbon loosely tied around his wrist. His dark hair was in a bun behind his head, with strands loose as if he didn’t have the heart to retie it. He didn’t look like anyone Bad knew, but he felt like the way Bad felt about Angel George. _Familiar_.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice lax and calm. “How you doing?”

Bad’s skin tingled. He knew that voice. It was the voice he avoided when he’s trying to get someone to safety or when he’s putting fires out. First George, now Sapnap. They’re both so different. Of course—they’re the Dream Team’s doppelgangers. They’re the things their original selves are not.

If Sapnap is an arsonist, a destroyer—does that make his alternate self a healer?

“I…” Bad found himself looking away. “I’m fine.” Help always came with a price, no matter how small. To save someone meant to gain a favor from them, and he disliked that form of currency for a long time.

Not-Sapnap nodded, humming as he walked over to a shelf of books. He took a couple and dropped them on the table by his bed. “Here,” he said, now adjusting the crutches on Bad’s wings. He started to unscrew them with his hands. “This’ll take a while, and I don’t want you to bore yourself to death.”

Bad grimaced as his wings were being fumbled by someone else. He hadn’t show them to anyone on the server—not even Skeppy, which the guilt ate through him—and a complete stranger was prodding it.

Not-Sapnap noticed this and stopped. He turned to Bad with his hands on his hips. “Don’t be so nervous. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just getting this off so we can start on your physical therapy.”

Bad whipped to him. “Physical what?” he demanded. Physical Therapy wasn’t a stranger to him. He’d helped Ant and Ponk through theirs when their lost limb was reattached. He never thought the word would be used _for_ him.

“Physical therapy,” he huffed. “Your wings are in horrible shape, dude. George said you were attacked, and while he is my friend I doubt him. Especially after I treated them.” He gestured to his wings. “Do you have any sort of disease? It’s unlikely, since angels aren’t like humans and they don’t get sick for the end of the world, but there’s always an anomaly somewhere.”

Sitting on his knees, Bad pursed his lip as his fists on his thighs tightened. “No,” he admitted. “I just… haven’t used them for some time.”

Not-Sapnap raised an eyebrow. He took hold of the crutches and spread one of his wings to the left. “Does this hurt?”

“A little.” The pain wasn’t as intense as before. It was more like a soreness that persisted after a workout. He moved his wings, and it wiggled in its confined space. He winced at the tenderness in its joints and flesh.

“Tell me.” Not-Sapnap leaned on the wall, setting the screws down to the table by the books. “How long is this… ‘some time’?”

Bad bit his lip.

“I need to know,” Not-Sapnap said. “I won’t say anything to anyone else. Healer’s Honor. Besides, I need to know so I can treat you. Do you want to go the rest of your oh-so long life without flying?”

His snippy quips reminded him of the Sapnap he knew, but without any of the fire. Instead, Not-Sapnap was calm, laid-back like the ocean. Nothing like the pyromaniac Bad knew.

“Around years, I think,” Bad relented. “At least five.”

“ _Five_.”

“… maybe seven. I hardly keep track of time.”

Not-Sapnap paused as if he were a movie. After a pregnant silence, he turned to Bad, like a robot finish analyzing its plan. Bad swallowed, his body tensing.

“How are you even alive?” he demanded. “George said you were falling out of the sky.”

“And he saved me,” Bad agreed. “I would’ve died if it wasn’t for him.”

“That’s not the point. I’m asking you how you even got up there in the first place. With your wings’ condition, you won’t be able to move them, much less actually fly. Did another angel try to kill you? There isn’t many around where we are, but there’s always the bad apples in the bunch. Do you remember their name?”

 _Another angel._ “There’s more angels?” he asked back. “I didn’t know that.” Bad mentally slapped himself. This was a different world. Of course there would be more angels. George is one of them, for goodness’s sake!

Not-Sapnap’s frow deepened, much like George’s earlier. But rather than frustration of his ignorance, it was a look of worry. Bad felt himself shrink under Not-Sapnap’s gaze, like he was at fault for dooming the world.

“Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen you before.” Not-Sapnap pushed the wing back into its place. “I’ve met some other angels because of George, but he never introduced you to me, or talk about you.” He scratched his head, then gave a free hand to Bad. “I guess this is where we introduce ourselves. I’m Pandas, Healer to mostly George, since he keeps getting himself into trouble. Nice to meet you.”

Bad stared at the hand, then to the face of the voice. He could see bits of the Sapnap he knew in there; his dark eyes and his dimples whenever he smiled. They had the same face, same physique (which was surprising considering the Georges’ height and race difference) and voice, but _he’s not Sapnap_.

He took Pandas’ hand with a firm grip.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Bad.”

Pandas gave him a lazy grin. “Don’t worry,” he assured him. “You’re in good hands.”

Bad really hoped so.


	3. Sweet Naïve Starchild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad is reminded of what mattered to him the most.

Moonlight trickled in the window like a river of silver fish. Bad looked up from his book, and was fairly surprised to realize how fast time had passed. His wings were still kept in place by a metal cast, but they didn’t bother him as he laid on his stomach, flipping page after page. It’s been hours since he saw anybody else, and he was almost antsy waiting to see the other versions of the people he knew. But no one came, excluding George who came and offered to spoonfeed him his stew because of his condition, which Bad immediately declined.

This George was too nice for Bad’s liking. Too innocent and caring. Nothing like the George back in his world.

He didn’t mind spending his time alone. In fact, he was content that he was given personal space – not that an infirmary was personal. There were other beds in the space, but there were curtains hanging by each bed, and he was the only one here. Was Pandas a good healer or did nobody get hurt? Either seemed too good to be true. Nothing’s went wrong yet. That alone should be more than uncanny.

Bad never had high expectations for anything. Not since the first war in the Dream SMP started, and he wasn’t about to get his hopes up for anything now. Wishes and wants were always met with disappointment, and dreams were crushed by boots of steel. He remembered staying in his home, holding Skeppy’s hand and waiting for the wars to tide over, praying that they won’t be roped into the conflict. It was a simple, fragile wish; yet it’d been destroyed as the fires spread towards their mansion, burning their garden and smoke suffocating them inside their own house.

He squashed the thought and shook his head, turning his eyes back to the book, squinting to read the words with some difficulty. It was a story about a child finding her way home from the land of the stars, meeting many enemies and no friends at all. Her enemies were nice, but they weren’t good; they poisoned her mind with lies of her home, whispering things into her ears that weren’t true at all. Bad liked this story. It was the first thing he’d read in a while.

“ _Sweet Naïve Starchild_ ,” George’s voice rang out, surprising Bad. He whipped towards the curtains, to see it wide open with George holding it open. His wings were folded behind his back to prevent knocking any equipment over. “Have you read it before?” He entered the small space, the curtains closing behind him.

Bad blinked. “ _Sweet Naïve Starchild_?” He didn’t hear the door open. Had he been so absorbed that he hadn’t paid attention to his surroundings? He closed the book, running his fingers on the leather cover. The name was written in cursive, with a drawing of a starry-skied window at the bottom. “Pandas brought it in case I was bored. This is the first time I’ve read it.”

George’s eyebrows arched, his arm on his hips as if he were surprised by him. “Really?” He bent down and picked up the book, opening it and tracing his hands on a random page. “I thought everyone’s read it. It’s a classic bedtime story that parents tell their children.” He chuckled fondly, closing the book and handing it back to Bad. “Me, Nightmare and Pandas took turns reading it to each other when we were younger. I remember that Nightmare was always scared of the god that turned mad.”

 _Nightmare_. A new name. If Bad had to guess, he was Dream’s opposite, and he was still friends with George and Pandas. In his world, not so much. “I haven’t got to that part yet,” Bad confessed, taking the book back. “I’m still at the part where the main character is looking for her friend—the one who can hear stones’ songs.”

“Oh. Did I just spoil you?” George hummed, tapping his lips with a finger. “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up. Anyways, are you ready to start flying?”

Eh? What?

Bad swore he heard George wrong. “… excuse me?”

George gestured to the window. The wind blew softly gently outside, combing the tree leaves like a musician strumming their guitar strings. “Pandas told me I need to teach you flying,” he said as a matter-of-factly. “He can’t do it, because he doesn’t have wings, obviously. But that aside, I’d like to introduce you to another one of my friends! It’s okay if you’re not up to it, and I won’t pry, but he’s shy and I need him to meet more people other than me or Pandas.”

“Let me guess.” Bad can’t help but crack a smile. Dream’s opposite was shy and timid? That was a sight to behold. “It’s Nightmare?”

George clicked his tongue and gave him finger guns. With his eyes squinted, Bad noticed that they were strikingly blue. Bluer than the blue in the deep sea and bluer than cornflowers. It was almost as if they were magic. (Which again, wouldn’t be surprising, considering he’s an angel.)

“ _Someone_ ’s catching on quickly. What are you gonna do next? Uncover the secrets of my good looks?” George kidded, reaching up for the metal harness around his wings. He fumbled at the structure, but he was careful to not irritate Bad’s wings. They were much better now, but they were still weak and sensitive. “How do you get this off?” he complained. Suddenly Bad didn’t have much confidence in the angel’s technical capabilities. “Did Pandas put these at random and called it a day? And he calls himself a healer?”

The curtains slid open, revealing Pandas in a black sweater and ponytail. “And you call yourself my friend?”

George and Bad screamed simultaneously. George’s wings shot outwards, smacking Bad in the face with a face full of feathers.

“Why are you here?” Bad demanded, pushing George’s oversized wing out of his face. 

Pandas shrugged, sticking his tongue out at George before turning to Bad with an answer. “This is my infirmary,” he quipped without malice. “Can’t I go in my own place or check up on my patient?”

Bad’s face flushed red. “Well, I guess—” He wasn’t used to joking around with others. Fortunately Pandas noticed his discomfort and took over, whipping to George with a raised eyebrow.

“Are you _trying_ to wreck his wings?” he scoffed, pushing the angel aside. He started dismantling the skeleton himself. “You’re one sadistic bastard, if I do say so myself. Are you scared that Bad looks too pretty that you’re going to reinact the Evil Queen from Snow White?”

George grinned at Bad. “Ooh, you’re Snow White.” He winked at Pandas. “Who’s Prince Charming, then?”

Pandas tilted his head, like he was seriously listing down the candidates in his head. “Not Nightmare. He can’t kiss someone even if his life depended on it.” He opened the harness and freed Bad’s wings. He guided them down with difficulty, every joint and feather stiff and numb. “What about Jeff? Or even Big K? They’re matches made in heaven.”

“That depends.” George shrugged, swiveling back to Bad. “Do you like someone who cooks a lot or someone who likes hugs?”

“What?” Bad quizzed, thoroughly confused.

“Yes. You’re right. Prince Charming needs to be someone who _can_ handle kissing a random corpse in the middle of nowhere,” George muttered. “Someone who’s good looking, but not more than me.”

“Why don’t you play both roles then?” Pandas vamped, crossing his arms as he puffed out his cheeks. “You can cast yourself as Mother Gothel while you’re at it. Gaslighting your love interest to get Bad helpless in the woods, then swoop in and act like the hero to get him to fall in love with you.”

George huffed. “And you say _I’m_ the sadist.”

“This is a story about you gaslighting Bad. I’m merely the narrator and you’re the entire circus.” Pandas put his hand on Bad’s shoulder, pointing a finger at his face. “Isn’t that right, Bad? Do you see Mother Gothel in his face? The edgy, goth vibe in his black eyeliners and black lipstick?”

Bad nearly jumped in his skin. He didn’t expect that he would be included in this conversation. He was usually left out of them, as he couldn’t catch on very well. But somehow, he understood what they were saying, as if their words were taken right from his head.

“Yeah, George.” He smiled, bringing himself out of his daze. “Where’s your nose piercings to match your black eyeshadow?”

Pandas howled, doubling over and clutching his stomach. George feigned offense, putting one hand on his chest and the back of his other on his forehead, leaning backwards with a dramatic expression on his face. “Not you too, Bad!” he cried. “Not my fatal weakness: _Goth aesthetics_!”

Bad burst into a fit of giggles, covering his mouth with his hands as George whined about storybook villains and dark makeup styles. Pandas choked on air, pounding his chest to clear his windpipe, and the two others shut up and turned to him with concerned expressions. It shocked the brunet, as he also didn’t anticipate that they would be so concerned with each other’s health. This wasn’t something they would do in his world.

“You alright? Do you need to sit down like the old man you are?” George jabbed, his smile growing worried rather than amusement. “Do you need some water?”

Pandas coughed and cleared out the rest of the blockage. “I’m fine.” He grinned at him. “If I die before my patient, I want you to burn my body and dance over my grave. But back to the topic.” He gently pinched Bad’s wings. Bad tensed at the hold. “You should be fine to do _gentle_ stretches. And what I mean by that is: don’t let George convince you that jumping down cliffs and opening your wings last second is a good idea. It’s not, and it’s a very messy death. We can’t hold a funeral for you if you die that way because it’s too embarrassing. Got it?”

Bad nodded. During the conversation, he’d almost forgotten that his wings were exposed, and not hidden in a thick cloak stuck to his back. He was so used to the aches and pains on his back, that he didn’t realize they’d been relieved. But that’s not why. Pandas and George were comfortable. They made him feel a way he never had back in his own world. It was like a warmth that blossomed in his body, like a comforting blanket that cradled him in the coldest of nights.

“Now get out,” Pandas said as Bad stood from the bed, almost tumbling over but was caught by George. “And don’t come back until you’ve gotten your fill.”

Bad frowned. “Fill? Fill of what?”

“Flying. Once you start, you don’t ever want to stop.” George smirked, letting go of Bad once he could stand on his own. “Trust me.”

* * *

Side-by-side with George, Bad walked out of the infirmary and into a world he presumed that would be in ruins. It was _Good’s_ world, after all. If someone like him could be as wicked as him, then what would everyone else be like? But he was wrong and judged too early. George is kind, and so was Pandas. They were _opposites_ – they were what OG George and Sapnap were not.

Only a few minutes down the road paved by stone brick, he was greeted with various houses and gardens, each built with different styles and different individuals. They were all polished and perfect, without a sign of griefing or burning. The floor was smooth and fertile, void of fire and explosions, like it’d never seen any wastage in its time. Flowers blossomed from every part of the fields.

Bad looked around with wonder. It was so peaceful. There were no war declarations or houses burnt down in retaliation. There were no fighting and no blood splattered on wooden doors. It was just… _peace_. Smoke rose from chimneys and crops ripened in gardens. It was so normal and beautiful, that Bad wanted to cry. He’d forgotten what a world without war looks like. It was too good to be true. s

George wrapped his arm around Bad’s shoulder and pulled him close to him, his shoulders just barely reaching George’s chest. Bad looked up in confusion, only for his question to be answered when he felt the cool wind chilling the tear streaks on his face. Somehow he didn’t notice he was crying and George did. The angel didn’t say anything, and didn’t look at his face to question him either. He was giving him privacy, yet reminding him that he wasn’t alone. He didn’t need to go through his sadness by himself.

With the back of his hand, he wiped his tears away and sniffled, the sensation completely different from other times. He wasn’t crying because he was sad. He was crying because he was overwhelmed by relief. He never thought he would feel this way, let alone in a foreign world, but here he was.

_There was no war or betrayal in this world. The people here lived in peace, without having to worry about their friends putting a sword to their throats._

“You need new clothes,” George said, avoiding the elephant in the room. “I don’t know where you got them, but I don’t recognize the fabric. They’re too thin. How are they supposed to keep you warm?”

Bad shook his head, taking a deep breath. “They’re not supposed to,” he croaked. “They were made specifically for that.”

“Oh.” George’s grip on his shoulder tightened worriedly. “Then you _definitely_ need a new wardrobe. You look around Pandas’ size; if you don’t mind being another vessel for his goth aesthetics.”

Bad giggled, hiccupping and trying to get himself under control, only for the dam to shatter with a flood pouring out. This was wrong. This wasn’t right. He was too _nice_. George’s not supposed to be nice to him. Neither was Sapnap or anyone else. This is an illusion. Everything was. _Everything’s just too good to be true_. How did he know that this wasn’t just his brain playing tricks on him? Was he bleeding out on the floor somewhere, conjuring up some fantasy that he longed but could never have?

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” They stopped walking. George took hold of both his shoulders and spun him around, so Bad would be facing him. He wiped his tears with his thumb, cupping Bad’s cheeks with care. “We don’t have to fly tonight, okay? We’re just out here for a walk. For some fresh air. Then we’ll go back, let Pandas give you a checkup, and we’ll read books for the night, okay?”

Trying to stop, Bad nodded, only for fresh tears to stream as soon as the old ones were wiped away. He shook George’s hands away, and wiped his tears with his sleeves while covering his face. He hated anyone seeing him like this. He was told and told again that crying made you vulnerable, and vulnerability was what got you and the people around you hurt. But he just couldn’t stop – layers upon layers of untended grief bubbling up to his mind, taking over his headspace before any could pop.

“Come on.” George put a hand on his shoulder, voice soft. “I know what’ll cheer you up.” He turned, and spread his wings without hitting Bad, then bent down slightly to reach Bad’s height.

Bad sniffled and stared through pouring eyes. “A—a piggyback?” he hiccupped.

“Just don’t grab onto my wings.” George smiled. “Trust me, you’ll love what I’m about to show you.”

Skeptical, Bad climbed onto his back, holding onto the angel with his arms around his neck. His skin was warm; warmer than a regular person’s body heat. It would be unbearable to some, but for Bad, it was just right. Like drinking warm cocoa on a cold winter night.

“Hold on tight,” George told him. He spread his wings and took off into the air, their feet leaving as the ground grew further beneath them.

The first few seconds was nothing but wind rushing on his face, drying his tears like a mother’s handkerchief. Droplets of tears fell from his chin, descending to the sky like a crystallized shooting star. Throughout their ascent, he could barely keep his eyes open, only seeing flashes of blue, silver, and the steadily fastening pace of George’s wings. In the air, he couldn’t hear anything but the wind and flaps of wings and feathers, along with the pounding in his head.

His body shook with excitement, his hands clammy and coated in cold sweat as anxiety pumped in his veins. It’s been years since he visited the moon and stars, since he last whispered secrets to the aurorean lights above. He was about to see them again, with his crippled wings and the help of an unlikely friend.

George broke through the clouds, a brilliant pair of feathers emerging from the silver clouds like a swan. His speed dropped, flying slow enough to keep them in air, but fast enough to glide above the clouds and peek at the world below.

Bad opened his eyes to a world he desperately missed.

“Doesn’t this look _amazing_?” George stuck his hands out, his lips curled into a content smile as he took in the sight: warmly lit homes and forests on the ground; the endless woods reflecting moonlight with their leaves; rivers flowing across the land like liquid platinum.

Bad nodded, his hold around George’s neck tightening. “It’s breathtaking,” he agreed. “It’s everything that I’ve ever dreamed of.”

George laughed. “You don’t need to dream anymore! Everything you see here… it’s _real_.”

Bad sucked a tight breath in. It was. Everything’s real. The wind combing his hair was real. The salty tears that he tasted on his tongue was real. And the angel he was holding onto was very, very real.

He glanced at his own back, as if thinking of something. An idea rooted itself into his mind like a seed. Slowly, warily, he lifted his wings up to the air, in spite of its stiffness and poor shape. He imagined that he was flying on his own. He pictured himself swimming among the stars, searching for a cloud to curl up and sleep on. He let the wind comb his brittle feathers, the cold air surrounding it like a protective blanket.

For a long time, his instinct to fly had been extinguished like candle flame. Years of scorn can leave one’s heart cold, and turn one’s desire to stone. But now, as George shared this piece of the night sky with him, it was relit. Like a phoenix born from ashes, like a flower blooming from a wilting bush.

He’d forgotten many things. Relief, happiness, honesty—but he’d forgotten the most important thing of all, and George had reminded him of what he should be fighting for. His fists balled, the last of his tears rolling down his cheeks like pearls; a silent declaration of change.

He wanted to fly again.


End file.
